


Thy Kingdom Come

by ClementineStarling



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Lament Configuration, Lemarchand's Box, M/M, Masochism, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward gets his hands on the Lemarchand Configuration...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

> For [viceindustrious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious)' prompt ([x](http://unsettledink.livejournal.com/112061.html?thread=1018045#t1018045)).  
> Essentially commentfic. 
> 
> Mostly a prelude to whatever might happen next. *shudders to think about it* ;)
> 
> Warning: (in the unlikely case someone comes along, who doesn't know what the Lament Configuration business is all about, just to make sure no one is surprised) this fic contains mentions of torture + self-injury in relation to sexual arousal, nothing too graphic, but still.

He cannot suppress the small gesture of reverence, the way his hand touches his mouth in awe, a swift, wordless prayer, before he reaches out to run his fingers over the box. The polished wood is smooth and warm as flesh, its intricate golden symbols pulsing with the heartbeat of magic. The sense of it being alive is overwhelming. Intoxicating. Coward has scarcely touched the thing and already he is entranced. Too captivated to pay any attention to the merchant who took a step back the moment he revealed the box, ever careful not even to graze the wood with bare skin, as if not only afraid of its inherent power but also of its mere existence.

What a silly notion. Why should one be afraid of such beauty? Unsolved the puzzle box lies dormant, even though Coward can feel the pleasure tingling in its form, small sparks in the pads of his fingers, a faint promise of ecstasy that makes him want to stroke it open with a gentle caress. Though perhaps it is simply impatience.

It took him years to find it, and more money and effort than seemed reasonable for such a fancy, though somehow he was never, in all his life, more certain about anything. He knew he needed the box since the first time he'd heard of it, knew it would be the delivery from his evils, highest pleasure and ultimate penance at once, the one thing to finally erase the rot of sickness from his soul, this sin that roots too deep inside his body to weed it out by conventional means. Not that he hasn't tried. Not that others haven't. 

He remembers the sting of Father Anthony's hand, the copper taste of blood in his mouth, and how much it _inflamed_ him, stirred him to the brink of release, the pain so inextricably linked with arousal, imbued with shame and guilt, an irresistible concoction that kept his whole body throbbing for hours. Hours he spent in the dank darkness of the chapel, half delirious from incense and lust, waiting for the cushioned kneelers to become hard as stone under his shins, for his muscles to cramp, the discomfort to turn into torment, to grow unbearable. He hoped it would take his mind of the images – the suffering of Christ, lean limbs spread to welcome violation, the arrows buried deep in Saint Sebastian's flesh, eyes wide, mouth gaping in transcendent rapture, the touch of his own hand in the secrecy of night - though to no avail. His skin burnt at the very thought, his cock stiff in his trousers, while he let the rosary glide through his fingers, bead after bead of Ave Maria – _ora pro nobis peccatoribus_ – and the occasional Pater Noster – _ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a Mal_ – a rhythm of words, meaningless after so many iterations, only matching the wickedness pulsing through his veins. 

Sometimes, with his mind already caught in the rising fog of unconsciousness, he pressed the prayer book to his crotch, harder and harder, until he found himself rutting against it, unable to help himself, unable to stop, incapable of withstanding temptation, regardless the mounting urgency of his prayers. “Why have you forsaken me?” he mouthed heavenwards when he came, twitching, shuddering in his ruin, a mortal child so far beyond redemption.

Decades went by without finding a remedy for his weakness, years he spent damned to repeat his depravity, again and again, in all its sick and twisted forms, and with time the conviction began to grow rank in the darker corners of his heart, that if God did not come to claim his soul, perhaps the Calvinists were right – perhaps he was already predestined for hell and all attempts of resistance were wasted and futile in the face of fate. What kind of martyrdom could still save him, if even agony was ingrained with pleasure? If no description of anguish or hellish torture, would teach him humility, if, on the contrary, these accounts of excruciating pain never failed to make him hard and wanton for such ecstasy, what hope for salvation could possibly remain for him to cherish?

Coward stood in front of Waterhouse's _Saint Eulalia_ at the Royal Academy, appalled by the lack of accuracy in the painting, when he heard of _them_ for the first time, whispers of iron hooks and flesh torn from bone uttered by a young wide-eyed man who, it turned out, shared his own proclivities. He told him all he knew, and Coward indulged him for it, made dreams come true and repaid him generously for every secret, with whip and blade, saw and hook. It was all too earthly a butchery, he thought afterwards, hardly any transcendence to be discovered at all in the mess of blood and screams and viscera.

But _they_ , they had to know better, surely they must have earned their title, Hierophants, as the sorry messenger of their teachings called them, priests and priestesses of Hell, theologians of the Order of the Gash, keepers of an arcane doctrine, they would reveal when summoned. To call on them, as he gathered from curses and moans, sobs and cries elicited by his pathetic artistry, one needs a contraption that works as a key to their realm, a bridge to span the Schism, and tear down the wall between their worlds. Only a certain type of puzzle box would achieve this, unlock their treasure of metaphysical sensuality and carnal knowledge to the avid student.

Coward yearns for this wisdom, aches for it with an unspeakable passion, and now he's come so very close--  
“How much do I owe you?” he asks without averting his eyes from the prize in his hand.

“It's been... it's already taken care of,” the merchant stutters, retreating even further into the shadows, as though they could truly swallow him. There is something about the gloominess of the room that would make such a stunt seem almost likely, it is, after all, a magician's shop.

Coward looks up, realising he must have missed something crucial in his eagerness to get his hands on one of Lemarchand's Configurations. Certainly, he paid the man a handsome sum for his troubles in advance, but it was meant to motivate him in his search for the box, secure his discretion, not as payment for the thing itself; it could hardly have been enough for so valuable an artefact. _Taken care of_ would suggest an unknown benefactor. It is an expression one would use for an unbidden favour, some sort of humiliating gesture of generosity towards the poorer like an unspoken dinner invitation. How rude to imply, he could not afford this! How bad-mannered of that someone to get involved in this business at all!

“Who would dare...?” he hisses but the merchant does not respond; and he doesn't need to, for his gaze is answer enough – it fixed on something, _someone_ behind Coward, as if hypnotised by an apparition.

Coward spins around.

The man is standing directly behind him, so close it should have made his hair stand on end, and his smile alone is a paragon of impudence, a half derisive, half patronising curl of thin lips. But then, even more brazenly, he reaches out with leather gloved hands, takes hold of his wrist in an almost bone-crushing grasp, and pries the box from Coward's fingers, who – to his utter surprise – finds himself unable to offer any sort of resistance. All he can do is stare in disbelief at this insolent stranger, no less spell-bound than the shop-owner, and wait for him to explain himself.

The man turns the Lament Configuration curiously between his fingers, as if, contrary to all evidence, he didn't know what it was. It appears like half an eternity has passed before he glances up, a queer sort of amusement on his aquiline features.  
“I don't think you should have that quite yet,” he says as though chiding a child. “It would be a waste of good suffering.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Absolution](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8423695) by [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet)




End file.
